Sometimes
by v2point0
Summary: Pre-movie. It's easy to be hopeless in District 9, and it's easier to forget miracles exist.


Here's just something I threw together for the heck of it.

**Title**: Sometimes  
**Rated**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: Mild profanity, mild violence, maybe spoilers for movie?  
**Summary**: Pre-movie. It's easy to be hopeless in District 9, and it's easier to forget miracles exist.  
**A/N**: Using the Poleepkwa term again. Thanks to the peeps at the LJ D9 community for providing me with Paul's name! I wrote this very exhausted and proofread it just as well, so if there's errors, forgive me. Concrit and reviews are boss, but please send your flames to **CrowTChickATaolDOTcom**. Dedicated to my broski **nickel_curry**.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

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Sometimes it was pointless to have hope in District 9.

Which is not to say Christopher Johnson didn't have any. It was always easier to face life when you had hope. But in the long run, it could wound you deeper than anything tangible if that hope should prove false and empty. Wallowing in despair, however, did very little to make the situation any better. Might as well try to keep your chin up at least enough to look at those who spit on you, curse at you, just so you know you had a moment's satisfaction of looking into the eyes of the beast, even if it was just a for a short second. _I'm still alive._

There were days, however, that were simply too heavy to even lift his head at all. Days where it felt like pressure was building on his back like Atlas, forcing him flat against the muddy, tarnished earth. Days where hope was unheard of and every moment of splendor and glee and sigh of relief in the past no longer mattered nor existed.

Sadly, these days were increasing.

Twenty years. Twenty fucking years, and still nothing. But Christopher kept looking, kept searching for the materials needed to create fuel for the dormant ship, even if most of his time was occupied by a job that threatened to put him into an early grave and paid very little to provide for himself and his family. Hope was pushing him, or at least hatred of this planet and anxiety to return home.

And today was proving to be another one of doubt.

It was the only day of the week Christopher had off from work, and he spent it mostly scavenging scrap piles and garbage heaps around the length of District 9. To oblivious fellow prawns and humans, rather MNU agents or Nigerian gangsters, it appeared he was mimicking typical behavior of the alien species. Like vultures, they feasted on scraps, looking for whatever they could find to satisfy their hunger. It didn't occur to anyone to think otherwise and consider the reality of his hunt.

The technology containing the material Christopher needed for fuel had run dry, figuratively and literally, especially when most all foreign objects were forcefully removed on sight. Now it was mere remains that could hold some of this precious fluid that would jump-start that massive ship above.

As usual, Christopher had tended to his mission partnered with his good friend Paul, his son aiding them with the search. It made it a lot easier, and more ground was covered in shorter time. But nothing was cropping up that day. It would be nearly ten hours of scrambling in disgusting piles of waste and junk and they had nothing to show for all their effort and hard work. It wasn't a needle in a haystack; it was shaping up to be a tiny shard of a single needle in a mountain high haystack.

It didn't help that the weather was against them as well. It was a hot summer day, reaching nearly 102 degrees. There was no shelter of clouds, just endless blue skies and a sizzling hot sun that beat relentlessly on the people below. It was not just the sweltering heat that made it hard for the trio, which not only made them hot but all the objects they touched, most of which was metal, but with it brought a rise in the stench that made their feelers curl back in torment.

Finally, the heat became too much. It was apparent it had effected all three of them. Paul looked weak, clumsily slipping every few seconds or so with exhaustion, his skin flaking around armored dermal plates. Though Oliver appeared to be fairing well, Christopher was not going to risk any chances. So he was forced to postpone their scavenger hunt, perhaps for a few hours, perhaps for the day. Maybe until nightfall, before things got wild, as they usually did when the sun went down.

Paul was disappointed, but there was relief in his tired eyes. A reluctant, bitter relief. As Christopher sluggishly slipped down the pile of hot scraps of metal and beer bottles, the yellow-striped prawn reached over to Oliver. "Let's go," Paul said and tugged one of the little child's feelers. Oliver clicked but dropped the can he was studying and wrapped his tiny digits around Paul's. Paul playfully lifted the prawnling from the ground, placing him up on his shoulders before following Christopher's lead back home.

It wasn't any better in the shack. In fact, the heat absorbed into the metal and wood plating only made the tiny insides of the building as hot as a sauna. However, they had nowhere else to go, and at least there was some shade here. Christopher passed out bottles of boiled sanitized water he had retrieved from a nearby stream, the bottles themselves found littered outside the compounds. They didn't linger inside, but rather sat in the open doorway, the dirt cool from the shade.

Oliver guzzled down half the bottle, even though Christopher had told him to take it easy. However, he had noticed the way Paul was eying his bottle, turning it in his hands, rolling it back and forth, his gaze transfixed on the bent and twisted plastic. By the look in his eyes, Christopher knew what would come next. He turned to his son and waved a hand at him. "Go play," he said, "we need to talk in private."

Oliver tilted his head, feelers twitching. He then noticed his father's friend and the silent rage swelling around him like heatwaves pouring off their tin rooftop. "Okay," he replied a moment later and waddled off, clutching his bottle in his second pair of tiny hands. There were a few Earth children playing about and running around the District, most likely children of the resident gangsters who also made this Hell hole their home. Surely they'd been exposed to aliens long enough, so maybe they wouldn't mind accepting one into their games?

Christopher watched his son go before looking to his friend. "I understand your - "

The yellow prawn angrily pitched his bottle. The moment it hit the ground, the cap bust off, spewing water everywhere. "How much longer..." Paul growled, swaying uneasily, one hand running smoothly over his head and feelers. He glared, demanding, at Christopher. "Twenty years! Twenty years and not a fucking thing!"

Christopher sighed. "I understand your frustration, I do," he said softly, gently. "But we cannot give up."

"I say we just blow up this fucking place," Paul snorted and swished up a single hand. "It is nothing but a bottomless pit of shit."

"As long as that ship still floats, still functions," Christopher said and pointed to the skies, to their giant spaceship tauntingly hanging above them, "then there is still hope."

Paul shook his head. "It's only a matter of time before that, too, comes crashing down," he spat. "Maybe it will take this place, the entire city of those human shitheads with it." He couldn't help but release a bitter chortle.

Christopher did not respond right away. He looked into the bottle, at his tiny reflection inside the hot water. "If it makes you feel any better," he snorted and shrugged, "sometimes I wish that too." The other prawn grunted, puffing out his chest. "It seems easier to just roll over and die, but..." Christopher tightened his pincers around his bottle. "It just means accepting defeat."

"I'm not accepting defeat," the yellow Poleepkwa replied and he spoke Christopher's real, true name before he finished, "I am accepting _reality_."

Christopher's feelers wilted back. "Not yet," he murmured. He couldn't give up hope, not when his child was depending on him. It would be wonderful if he could return his people to their home planet, but it would be the greatest gift throughout the whole galaxy to see Oliver's eyes light up once they landed on their mother soil and turn to reflect the seven moons in his glassy, wondrous gaze. "Just... not yet. Not for me, not for you." He looked weakly to his friend, before offering his water. Paul eyed it with a sulk clear on his dirtied face. "At least, not today. Not tomorrow."

"Then we can discuss the day after tomorrow," Paul grumbled and took the water bottle. Christopher chuckled as he watched his friend take a long swallow of the drink, but his laugh was dry, empty. There was only false amusement. But as he had heard once amongst the humans, if one doesn't laugh, then they'll cry. So everything had to translate as some witty banter or playful joke or truly they had met the end of their rope.

Christopher wasn't sure if it was the heat or cramps from the water that made him feel ill.

Silence passed between the old friends for a good ten or fifteen minutes. They sat on the cool earth beneath the shade of the rickety shack's shingle roof, staring to the skies lined with smog. Every now and then a breeze would grace by and they'd click their mandibles happily, feelers raising and arching toward the wind. But alas, the wind wouldn't stay long and breezes came few and far between.

Christopher had finished the last drop of his water before gathering to his feet, hands sweeping off the seat of his all ready ruined pants. "We'll call it a day," he said regretfully. He reached out a hand, helping his companion to stand. "It's too hot. We'll continue the search again when it's cooled down." Who knew when that would be. Given the fact both prawns spent morning 'til night at work doing more labor than they could handle, neither knew. Maybe next Sunday.

"Sure," Paul agreed. And the lack of confidence in his voice made Christopher wince. Because this was starting to become infectious, the urge to surrender and raise the white flag.

Just as the two made to go back inside the oven hot shack, there came a loud guttural scream followed by a frightening _fwoom_. Both prawns bolted upright, feelers twitching as they hounded in on the distress call. They looked to one another briefly before darting outside, following the source of the shriek.

It wasn't hard to pinpoint the location. Just a few houses down, fire had caught to a dilapidated shack. Prawns had gathered around it, most watching with their eyes bugging wide open, jaws slacked, completely clueless as what to do, or simply amazed by the fire. A few gangsters were circling the area, but realizing it had nothing to do with them, they left without a second glance. Two prawns, however, one a lobster red and another flecked gold and brown, were flailing at the shack engulfed in flames, crying with terror.

Their screams translated perfectly to their fellow, shocked companions. Humans did not need to know the different tones and pitches to understand why they were crying and nervously skittering around the fire. The loud popping noises and tiny squeaks and squeals from within were evidence enough. Inside that burning shack were their children, being cooked alive and there was nothing they could do about it.

"This is bad," Paul grumbled before taking charge. He ran to the audience of spectators, yelling and barking and snapping at them to get off their asses and _do_ something. These orders did not register at first, but the drones quickly understood the situation and went to work like a perfect hive. They gathered whatever source of water nearby to douse out the flames, some running to get buckets of it from the streams. Two prawns actually attempted to put the fire out by urinating on it.

Christopher tended to the desperate parents, still pacing dangerously close to the fire. The red prawn made an attempt to jump into a window licked with the hot orange and red fire before Christopher grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. "Stop!" he snapped and the panicked prawn looked at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"They're in there!" he wailed. "My children! _They're in there_!"

That was obvious, what with all the bursts of life popping carelessly away inside. Christopher cringed when there came a rather loud, high pitched shriek, causing both parents to howl. Other prawns had returned to throw water on the flames. One observant alien had gathered a stolen fire extinguisher, but not knowing how to properly use it, he tossed it into the fire hoping that would do something.

"Human spawn went inside!" the gold and brown prawn groaned loudly. "Went in there, set fire to it!" He marched up to Christopher and angrily shoved a pincer hard against his chest. "Your child, too! He went inside too!"

Christopher's eyes widened. Suddenly filled with horror. "My child?" he asked in a low, frightened voice.

"Oliver!" the red prawn spat and yanked his hand free. He then went to help the others with putting out the flames. The cries were dimming now, suggesting the rest of the little ones were dying out.

For a moment, Christopher was left frozen in place. But then like a smack to the face, he charged mindlessly at the shack, making his way to the front door. He didn't get far when two other prawns latched onto his arms and held him back. They did not know why their brother was attempting to get inside, but they weren't going to risk losing another life.

"Let me go!" Christopher ordered, thrashing in their arms. His pincers, all four sets, clawed and tore into the arms that held him back. He bucked, twisted, screaming the entire time with rage, frustration and fear. But the prawns ignored his pleas, using all their strength to keep him down.

Paul had just finished dumping a bucket of water on the house before spotting Christopher in his current dilemma. "What are you doing?" he demanded, rushing up to the two Poleepkwa restraining his friend.

"Oliver is in there!" Christopher screeched, writhing. Paul gaped. "Oliver is inside get him get him out _let me go get him out_!"

Paul turned back to the shack, ready to brave the flames. But just as he was about to take a leap through the door, the shack gave a loud crunch and lurch before collapsing in on itself. The crowd gasped and jumped back quickly, throwing the last of their water on it. Both Christopher and the parents of the deceased children screamed, each held back from attempting to throw themselves into the wreckage.

The fire, however, died moments after the shack crashed and crumbled. Christopher finally managed to use the awe of this moment to wrestle himself free, shoving past the onlookers and running to the remains. He threw himself on the soot, the burnt wood, the melting metal, tearing everything in sight apart piece by piece in an attempt to find his son. Seeing this, the others released the parents, who joined Christopher in his search. Maybe to find survivors, maybe to find Oliver; any life, anything would be good.

Paul joined him a second later, then another prawn, then another and another and another, until a whole swarm of them were digging through the remains. But when ten minutes passed of thorough searching yielding no results, hope was shattering. Hope was what he believed, what he wanted to believe that kept his son alive, because all he had was hope and look where that had gotten him -

Christopher sat back on his legs, heaving and shaking over the ruins. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He ignored the blisters and burns along his hands and arms, ignored the cuts in his knees and splinters in his flesh, ignored the cries of the parents, ignored the soft clicks of apologies and comfort from Paul. He ignored everything and everyone and soon the entire world stopped moving, stopped breathing.

Christopher felt alone. Strangely alone. All sound had been muted, drained away like ink on paper. His wandering, dizzied eyes stinging and watering from the smoke only seeing the inescapable. These remains, these ruins: they were reality. They were District 9. They were the ship. They were the planet. They were their future. No digging, no searching, no hope could possibly undo the damage that had all ready been done. In this rotten pile of Hell, what sort of hope was there to believe flowers would rise from the ashes?

Christopher pressed a hand to his face. He was shivering, and he could feel something worse than sorrow fill him whole. It was disappointment; a disappointing rage for ever having thought there was _any_ chance of ever returning to days of old and just... just _returning_. Going home. Starting over. How fucking foolish he had been.

"Look look!"

Christopher slowly raised his head, feelers twitching. His attention followed the herd's, but sudden surprise rushed through him when he spotted a pile of planks rustling a few feet away. A prawn nearby brushed them aside, tilting his head back and forth. A moment later, he made a shocked but pleased click, reached into a hole and carefully pulled out a small prawn child.

It was Oliver and in one arm he held a lump of something oozing and black. "Oliver!" Christopher gasped and rushed over to his child immediately. Oliver coughed, covered in ash and soot, but happily fell into his father's four arms. Christopher hugged him tight, even if he knew it might be increasing any pain. He spoke to his son then, speaking words only found in their native tongue, a thousand words of gratitude and joy and relief.

"I okay, I'm okay," Oliver assured with a small croak.

Christopher gently held his child before him, looking him straight in the eyes. "Why did you follow those humans inside?" he demanded. "Are you all right? Are you injured?"

"I just watch them. Didn't say or do anything," Oliver mumbled. He held his blob of dripping goo closely. "Went inside to tell them get out. Didn't listen to me. They start fire 'cause they say they suppose to. MNU say so." At this, the group of prawns gave a collective growl and hiss; the parents beat their fists into the ground, cursing and spitting fury. "But I hide under boards. In basement. I'm okay. Just got couple of scratch - " He paused and everyone twitched when the little ball in his hand gave a sudden mewl. The grieving couple snapped their heads up, recognizing the noise.

"Oh, oh!" Oliver cheered before Christopher could ask him what exactly he was holding. "I manage to find little one. Manage to save him." He then turned and held the bundle out to the red and gold-brown prawns. Still in remains of its protective membrane sack was a baby prawnling. A week premature, but it was alive, sustaining very minor damage, miraculously. Its tiny limbs stretched and grabbed at air, its giant eyes nearly taking up its entire brown head. Oliver approached the couple, head bowed and feelers flat against his head with shame. "Only could save one. I'm sorry. Tried save others."

This, however, this was enough. Immediately the overjoyed red and gold Poleepkwa snatched their child into their arms, cradling it dearly, snuggling feelers and mandibles against its little face. The the golden prawn turned and pet Oliver on the head, thanking him a million times over. Oliver beamed, blushing before shyly running back to his father, clutching onto his torn red shirt and burrowing his embarrassed face in between those tiny appendages.

Despite the loss, despite the tragedy and the death, and despite the untrustworthy hope they forced themselves to carry, everything was okay. Christopher hugged his son dearly, cooing and clicking in the same manner as the couple with their single newborn. The crowd dispersed, went back to their mundane routines, no longer concerned. Paul lingered, smiling behind those mandibles, letting both families enjoy their newfound peace and hope.

Sometimes there were miracles in District 9.

END


End file.
